


Nothing Here to Run From

by enigmaticblue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't make it out of the woods unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Here to Run From

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sure this has been done before (and maybe done to death), but I needed to write a fic for the trope_bingo prompt “role reversal,” and this is what I came up with. Title from the Coldplay song, “Don’t Panic.” Coincidentally, this also fills the hc_bingo prompt, “attacked by a creature.”

Stiles’ lungs burn, and he realizes that he’s become completely turned around in the forest—which he can’t see for the trees, he realizes, and now he totally gets that expression.

 

Too bad there’s no one around he can tell, because he’s lost Scott at some point, although he can hear sounds that indicate his dad’s deputies are still searching for the rest of the missing girl.

 

There’s another sound, a branch breaking behind him, and Stiles turns to look, missing his footing and tumbling down a sharp incline. He gets the breath knocked out of him at the bottom of the hill, and he spits out leaves and dirt. Then, something lands on top of him, and he feels a burning pain in his side.

 

Stiles tries to yell, but he doesn’t have his breath back yet, and all he can do is open his mouth soundlessly. It’s too dark to see clearly, and he’s dizzy besides, but he can feel hot breath through his t-shirt, and he senses a large shape standing over him.

 

Somehow, he manages to draw in a lungful of air, and he shouts as loud as he can, hoping to scare it off. His dad calls out a warning, and the shape disappears off into the forest. Stiles just lays there, feeling cold earth under him and listening to his own harsh breathing.

 

“Who’s there?” his dad calls again, from much closer.

 

Stiles resigns himself to getting into deep, deep trouble. “It’s me! Don’t shoot!” he manages to call out.

 

“Stiles?” his dad responds incredulously, and Stiles can hear him moving through the underbrush, and coming down the hill. “I should have known,” he mutters, and Stiles isn’t sure if his dad had meant him to hear that or not.

 

Stiles climbs to his feet and can’t hide his grunt of pain.

 

“Are you hurt?” his dad demands, hauling him close, and then releasing him when Stiles’ yelps. “You’re hurt. Where?”

 

“I, uh, think something bit me,” Stiles admits.

 

His dad frowns. “Where?”

 

Stiles pulls his shirt up, and his dad points the beam of his flashlight towards his abdomen, throwing light on a livid bite mark and his skin streaked with blood.

 

“Shit,” his dad breathes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

“I was thinking it,” Stiles admits with a shaky laugh. “Dad, I’m okay.”

 

“I want to get you looked at,” his dad says. “And you’ll probably need your rabies vaccinations.”

 

Stiles grimaces. “Really?”

 

“Call it your punishment for showing up at a crime scene where you had no business being,” his dad says severely, gripping the back of his hoodie and helping him up the steep incline. “Let’s go.”

 

At least Scott got away, Stiles thinks. Since he’d been the instigator, it’s only fair that Stiles gets into trouble, and Scott not get caught.

 

Of course, Stiles is pretty sure that his dad is going to get a lot of mileage out of this infraction.

 

~~~~~

 

The hospital is about as horrible as Stiles expects it to be. He hates hospitals, and since he’s not dying, it takes forever for the doctor to see them. His dad insists on staying with him, even though Stiles tries to tell him that he’ll be fine alone—and yes, okay, Stiles is grateful for the company.

 

When the doctor—nametag reading “Conrad”—finally gets around to seeing him, he disinfects the wound, appearing completely disinterested, and then tapes some gauze over it. “I’ll give you your first round of rabies vaccine now,” he says, and then directs the remainder of his instructions to the sheriff. “If he has an adverse reaction, bring him back to the hospital. Otherwise, you can see your regular doctor in a couple of days for the next round. Just make sure you call ahead to ensure it’s on hand.”

 

Stiles groans theatrically when he’s gone. “Seriously?”

 

“Be glad I think getting bitten by a wild animal is punishment enough,” his dad replies with a stern expression. “You can’t just show up at a crime scene, Stiles. What were you thinking?”

 

Stiles winces, because he had been thinking that it would be a really cool to see a dead body and be the one who found it first.  He thinks better of actually saying as much, though. “I don’t know.”

 

His dad knows him better than that, because he says, “You realize she’s a person? She’s not just a mystery to be solved.”

 

“I know that,” Stiles mutters.

 

His dad puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and shakes him gently. “Good, because I don’t want to find you gawking at a crime scene again, okay? At the very least, the victim deserves more respect than that.”

 

Stiles feels heat crawl up his neck, and knows he’s flushing. His dad’s voice is steady, but Stiles can’t bear his disappointment. “I get it, Dad.”

 

His dad pulls Stiles close. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse. In case you’ve forgotten, there’s apparently a murderer out there.”

 

The rabies shot hurts like hell, and it’s really late before they get home. “Better get to bed,” his dad says cheerfully. “You have school in the morning.”

 

Stiles tries to look as pathetic as possible, although he knows it’s a lost cause. “Can’t I call in sick?”

 

“Not unless you are sick,” his dad replies smugly. “Self-imposed sleep loss doesn’t count.”

 

Stiles is about asleep on his feet by the time he gets to his room, and he strips out of his clothes and is out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

 

He’s expecting his alarm to hit him hard the next morning, but he wakes up with a ton of energy, and without even one of the list of side effects the doctor had warned his dad to watch for. In fact, when he removes the gauze to shower, the bite appears mostly healed.

 

If he hadn’t been in the hospital the night before with a bright light to highlight just how bad it was, Stiles could have convinced himself that it had just been a scratch, like it was now.

 

“Huh,” Stiles mutters, heading for the bathroom and examining the bite mark in the mirror. It definitely looks better than it had the night before. _A lot_ better.

 

Stiles shrugs it off and takes a quick shower. He’s running late, so he throws on whatever clothing comes to hand first, and decides he’ll stop for coffee and a breakfast sandwich on the way to school.

 

He’s ravenous, and takes advantage of the dollar menu to get three sausage biscuits, slurping his coffee on the way into the building.

 

“Dude!” Scott greets him. “Are you okay?”

 

Stiles knows he can milk sympathy from Scott where he couldn’t from his dad. “I got bitten by something,” he replies. “And I have to get rabies shots.”

 

Scott grimaces. “That sucks.”

 

“Are _you_ okay?” Stiles asks, realizing that he’d just assumed Scott had made it home safely.

 

Scott shrugs. “Well, somebody nearly ran me over with their car, and I had to suck on my inhaler, but I’m okay.”

 

Stiles nods, relieved. “Good. Come on, we’ve got English.”

 

He’s distracted by Lydia as they make their way down the hall, and nearly trips over his feet, although he catches himself almost immediately.

 

Scott jostles him. “Maybe she’ll notice you this year.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “And maybe we’ll make first line. I guess that stranger things have happened.”

 

“Like you getting bitten by a wild animal?” Scott asks with a goofy grin. “Did you see the body?”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “No.”

 

He doesn’t talk about the very effective mini-lecture his dad had given him. Scott hadn’t been nearly as interested in seeing the body, so Stiles doesn’t see the need to share the stern talk, especially since he can still feel the hot rush of shame.

 

Scott shrugs. “It probably would have been kind of gross, dude.”

 

“Probably,” Stiles agrees easily.

 

English is pretty boring until Stiles hears the cell phone ringing and startles, a little surprised when no one else seems to notice it—including his teacher, who generally gets pissy when phones ring during class.

 

She’s less uptight about just having your phone, as long as it’s not obvious, but she hates hearing them.

 

Scott is still staring at the front of the room, looking slightly zoned out, and everybody else is wearing expressions ranging from asleep to completely immersed.

 

A voice outside alerts him to the potential source, and he sees a very cute girl talking on a cell phone, telling her mom that she’d forgotten a pen.

 

Of course, she can’t hold a candle to Lydia Martin.

 

And then he nearly falls out of his chair as he realizes that he’s hearing things he should _definitely_ not be hearing.

 

“Problem, Mr. Stilinski?” his teacher asks archly, probably thinking Stiles had fallen asleep at his desk.

 

The whole room erupts in laughter.

 

“No, no problem,” Stiles says, raising his hands. “But I’ll be here all week.”

 

The teacher glares, but Stiles gets a couple of snickers before she goes back to her lecture, only to be interrupted a few minutes later by the door opening.

 

The girl with the cell phone enters, and the assistant principal who showed her in says, “This is Allison Argent, recently from San Francisco.”

 

The teacher nods a welcome. “Allison, have a seat wherever you can find an empty desk.”

 

Stiles glances at Scott, who’s staring at Allison with an expression that tells Stiles he’s already besotted, and he stifles a groan.

 

Granted, he’s been in love with Lydia since third grade, but he’s not a complete idiot. Deep down, he knows he doesn’t have a prayer.

 

Not unless Lydia’s type changes from muscle-bound douchebag to twitchy nerd boy, but Stiles isn’t holding his breath on that count.

 

Scott, on the other hand, has never been the best at multi-tasking, which means it’s going to be all-Allison all the time until she either shoots him down ruthlessly or—

 

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t want to think about the “or.” Hell, maybe Scott will manage to score a date with her before she realizes that Scott is never going to make first line, thus giving hope to every nerd in the school, including Stiles.

 

After that, Stiles’ day doesn’t get much better. He keeps hearing things he really shouldn’t be able to hear, including a lot of very uncomplimentary comments about himself.

 

Sure, Stiles has heard the old adage about not eavesdropping lest you be vexed, and he’s ignored it with impunity in the past. But he’d been _trying_ to ferret out information then; right now, he just wants to get through his day and _not_ know that half the student body thinks he’s a freak.

 

Okay, that’s a little optimistic; mostly people don’t notice him at all, but the ones that do think he’s—in their words—a spaz.

 

Stiles would really love to educate them on the derogatory nature of the term “spaz,” coming from the term “spastic,” often used for those with cerebral palsy. If he does that, it would require him to admit that he’d heard a conversation taking place on the other end of a busy hallway, which he is not about to do.

 

Plus, there’s no proof that he’s actually hearing what he thinks he’s hearing and not just going crazy.

 

Stiles pauses. He’d forgotten whether a potential side effect of the rabies vaccination was hallucinations, and he pulls out his phone to check.

 

“Dude!” Scott says, skidding to a halt next to him. “Have you seen her?”

 

“Several times,” Stiles says absently.

 

“I think she smiled at me,” Scott says.

 

Stiles scans through the links on his phone. “Sure, buddy.”

 

“We have lacrosse,” Scott says. “We should get going.”

 

Stiles grimaces. “Why do we even put ourselves in this situation, Scott? I could be dying here.”

 

“You’re not dying,” Scott says firmly, dragging Stiles towards the locker room. “You’re fine.”

 

“Some people have very bad reactions to rabies shots,” Stiles protests. He hasn’t gotten satisfactory information from his search. There has to be something about auditory hallucinations as a result of rabies vaccinations.

 

Scott rolls his eyes. “And you’re not one of them. You’re fine, and we’re going to be late. Finstock will put us on the bench out of principle.”

 

“And that’s different from last year, how?” Stiles asks sourly, but he puts his phone away and starts to get dressed.

 

The thing is, the team is already set. Tryouts are a big sham, because last year’s front line—the front line that won the state championship—hasn’t graduated. They’re all still in high school, so it’s not like the coach is going to mess with perfection.

 

“McCall!” Finstock yells. “You’re on goal. I want to give the front line some confidence.”

 

Stiles grimaces sympathetically, and resigns himself to warming the bench again. He really has no idea why he keeps trying out when that fact is never going to change.

 

Oh, right, he thinks, seeing Lydia watching from the stands with the new girl, Allison. Because one day, there’s the off chance that Stiles will do something to impress Lydia Martin.

 

Scott does better than Stiles expected, letting through less than half of the shots fired at him, which means that he might actually be allowed to tend the goal if they have a big enough lead, and there’s no one else.

 

Stiles eventually gets his chance to practice with the others who will probably only take the field if every single member of the first line comes down with the flu—at the same time. Finstock gives Scott a break, probably because benchwarmers don’t need their confidence boosted.

 

He’s a little surprised at how well the stick fits in his hands, how easy it is to scoop up a ball and fire it past the keeper and into the net.

 

So surprised, that he stands there staring dumbly until Finstock yells, “Looks like you haven’t gotten any smarter!”

 

Stiles shakes himself, and figures it’s sheer luck that allowed him to score.

 

And then he does it _again_ , and when they scrimmage, Stiles manages to dodge two of the guys on the defensive line and passes with unusual accuracy to let _Danny_ score.

 

Of course, he immediately ruins it by tripping over his feet and falling on his face.

 

“Just when I think you’ve made some improvement,” Finstock yells. “All right, that’s enough. Hit the showers.”

 

Stiles heads back to the locker room in something of a daze. His teammates—such as they are—stink of sweat and deodorant, and—dude, seriously? Axe? What kind of douchebag wears Axe? It’s the scent of middle school desperation.

 

And Stiles should definitely _not_ be smelling that. He never has before.

 

A quick mental inventory tells Stiles that he’s been hearing things he shouldn’t hear, smelling things he shouldn’t smell, and outside his usual clumsiness, he’d made at least a couple of goals that he shouldn’t have made.

 

In fact, Stiles is pretty sure that Finstock might actually use him as an alternate, given the results of the scrimmage.

 

“Dude, what’s your issue?” Scott says, having waited for him at the edge of the field. “You’re a total space cadet.”

 

Stiles shrugs. “I’m just tired. You know I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

 

“Don’t look for sympathy from me,” Scott says. “It was your idea to go out into the woods.”

 

Stiles rubs his side reflectively; the bite isn’t even sore anymore. “Yeah, I know. My bad.”

 

“You feeling any better?” Scott asks solicitously, thus proving that he’s an awesome friend.

 

Stiles shrugs. “Great. Absolutely great.”

 

He grabs a shower and gets dressed, and gives some thought to what he’s going to do next. What Stiles is thinking is nearly impossible, and he needs information, which means research.

 

Stiles drives Scott home and listens with half an ear to Scott’s monologue, which ranges from whether he’ll actually get to play this year to whether Allison will go out with him.

 

“Just ask her,” Stiles advises him when he pulls up in front Scott’s house. “I heard there was a big party this weekend. Ask if she’ll go with you.”

 

Scott gives him a panicked look. “Really? Do you think she will?”

 

“Fortune favors the brave,” Stiles replies.

 

Scott nods uncertainly. “See you tomorrow?”

 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, of course. Tomorrow.”

 

He stays up late that night, researching lycanthropy, the causes and cures—there are none that he can find—potential weaknesses and problems.

 

The biggest problem that Stiles foresees is the full moon, which is Friday, and as far as Stiles can tell, control is going to be his biggest issue.

 

That’s _if_ the information he’s found is accurate.

 

Stiles rubs his face and wonders what the hell he’s going to do come the full moon. The wound on his side is completely gone, which is definitely not normal, and his senses are too acute to be ordinary.

 

He doesn’t know who he can tell—Scott, obviously, and he’ll have to figure out how to make Scott believe him, but his dad…

 

Stiles has no idea how he’s going to keep this from his dad, but he has to, because he can’t make his dad worry about him.

 

Stiles gets a text from Scott that says, _allison showed up at work! saved dog_

 

 _mtb_ Stiles texts back, because he can be a good friend, and he’s not going to dump this on Scott over text.

 

Stiles wakes up the next morning with his face smashed on his desk, and when he sits up, he has to peel away the piece of paper stuck to his cheek. He glances around at his research and realizes that this is probably not the sort of thing he wants his dad to find.

 

He quickly gathers everything he’d printed off during the night and shoves it into a drawer, and then he has just enough time to change clothes and splash some water on his face before he has to head to school.

 

Stiles parks and leans his forehead against the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths. He’s pretty sure he’s a werewolf; he’s pretty sure that he’s going to have to find a way to keep himself locked up on the full moon.

 

He beats his head against the steering wheel gently, and then heads into the building. Stiles has a hard time concentrating during his classes; he keeps hearing things that he definitely shouldn’t be hearing, and smelling things, and seeing things. There isn’t enough Adderall in the world to keep him focused when there are so many distractions.

 

Unless Stiles can get this under control, he’s going to be fucked.

 

Scott comes up to him at the end of the day, when they’re both supposed to be heading to lacrosse practice. “Allison is going to the party with me!” Scott says.

 

Stiles forces a smile. “Really?”

 

“She said yes,” Scott replies enthusiastically. “Are you going?”

 

Stiles wants to go; he wants nothing more than to go to a party and warm the bench and have a normal life, but that’s clearly not going to happen.

 

Friday is the full moon, and it would be completely irresponsible for him to go to the party.

 

Besides, it’s not like he has a date.

 

“No, man, I don’t think so,” Stiles replies. “I’ve got something else.”

 

Scott shrugs that off—probably because he _does_ have a date, and he doesn’t want a third wheel any more than Stiles wants to _be_ a third wheel. “It’s cool. Wait, aren’t you going to lacrosse practice?”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m not feeling very good, and I’ve got another rabies shot tomorrow. Tell Finstock for me, huh?”

 

Scott frowns. “Are you sure? I can drive you to the ER if you want. My mom’s working right now.”

 

Stiles claps him on the shoulder, knowing how much Scott wants to play this season, and how missing a practice would hurt his chances. “No, I’m good. I can get myself home.”

 

“Are you sure?” Scott asks.

 

“Definitely,” Stiles insists. “You go, make first line.”

 

“I don’t think I’m going to get the chance,” Scott replies glumly.

 

“Power of positive thinking, buddy!” Stiles calls as he jogs out of the school.

 

Stiles stops by his house out of habit, wanting to check for messages that might have come in while he’s been out. Most people from the station know to call his dad’s cell phone if it’s urgent, but sometimes they’ll call and leave a message on the landline if they don’t have his dad’s cell number, and they’re trying to reach him.

 

“Sheriff Stilinski, it looks like the fibers on the corpse are from a wolf,” the message says. “We’re still working on figuring out what caused the wounds, but the hairs seem to indicate there was a wild animal involved, and may have been what killed her.”

 

Stiles stares at the answering machine, and sends a quick text to his dad to make sure he got the news.

 

Then, he heads out to the Preserve. It’s probably stupid, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to find anything to help him, but he has to try.

 

With evidence of a wolf’s presence on the body, and with Stiles’ own symptoms, he has to accept the truth.

 

Stiles is cursed; he’s a werewolf, and whoever the dead girl is, she had probably been killed by a werewolf, maybe the same one that had bitten him.

 

And he has to figure out how to get control, because he’ll be damned before he hurts somebody.

 

Stiles gets a little turned around as he tries to locate the spot where he’d been attacked, and ends up going in circles, growing increasingly more frustrated.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Stiles whirls, and stares at the figure coming through the trees, recognizing him immediately as Derek Hale. Stiles hasn’t seen him in years, not since the fire that had killed pretty much his entire family.

 

It’s not like Stiles _knew_ the Hales; he didn’t. But he’d seen them around town, and he remembers seeing the police reports and various folders on his dad’s desk, and he recognizes Derek without any trouble.

 

“Sorry,” Stiles says immediately, because he knows he’s probably trespassing. “Sorry, I just—something bit me the other night, and I thought I’d try to find it.”

 

Derek tucks his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Is that right?”

 

“Look, dude, you don’t have to believe me,” Stiles replies, tipping his chin up pugnaciously. “You don’t have to help. I just want to know what the fuck happened to me so—”

 

Stiles stops, because he’s not about to tell Derek that he’s a werewolf.

 

“You’d better come up to the house,” Derek replies. “I don’t know what bit you, but I do know you won’t find it by floundering around in the underbrush.”

 

“Who says I’m floundering?” Stiles calls after his retreating back.

 

Derek holds up a hand with the middle finger raised.

 

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters, although he follows.

 

“Look who’s talking,” Derek replies in such a low tone that Stiles shouldn’t have been able to hear him.

 

Stiles narrows his eyes and mutters under his breath, so low that you’d have to have an ear right up to his mouth to hear him, “Fucker.”

 

Derek looks over his shoulder with a smirk. “Follow me if you want answers.”

 

Stiles has a moment of panic as he realizes that _Derek Hale_ is a werewolf, and he’s just invited Stiles to go somewhere alone with him. He could kill Stiles and hide the body, and no one would ever know what had happened to him.

 

But Stiles swallows his fear and follows, because he can’t do anything else. He _needs_ to know the truth, and Derek can give him the answers he needs. Maybe Derek can help him figure out how to control this, or maybe he knows of a cure.

 

They enter a clearing, and the burned remains of the Hale house rise up before them, derelict and depressing.

 

Stiles holds his tongue with some difficulty. He could talk about Derek being haunted by the past, or living in squalor, but then he remembers it’s Derek’s family who had been killed, and the place might have some sentimental value.

 

“Come on in,” Derek says.

 

Stiles gives the burned out shell a dubious look, but he follows Derek inside anyway. The interior doesn’t look much better; the floorboards creak ominously under Stiles’ sneakers, and he tries to step softly.

 

“It’s not going to collapse,” Derek calls out.

 

“Everybody says that right up until they fall through the floor,” Stiles mutters. He still doesn’t trust it, but he figures Derek weighs more than he does, and he’s walking on it.

 

“The full moon is Friday,” Derek says, turning to face him. “You’re going to have to learn control.”

 

Stiles shrugs awkwardly, trying to appear nonchalant. “Why do you think I’m here?”

 

He wonders if Derek can hear his heart beating in double-time, or if he knows just how scared Stiles is right now.

 

Derek appears extremely unimpressed. “I have no idea why you’re here. I just know that you keep trespassing.”

 

“Were you the one that bit me?” Stiles demands, because he has to know that, too. He’s not sure it will make a difference, since he still needs answers, but Stiles doesn’t think he can trust anybody who turned him into a werewolf without his permission.

 

“No,” Derek says briefly, but Stiles can sense his sincerity.

 

“Do you know who did?”

 

Derek shakes his head. “Not yet.”

 

Stiles blows out a breath and figures he’s just going to have to find out for himself. “So, what can I expect? How do I control this?”

 

Derek’s expression doesn’t give away much, but Stiles suddenly gets the impression that Derek doesn’t know what to do. “Everyone is different. You have to find an anchor, something that will keep you from giving into the bloodlust.”

 

“You do realize that is about the _least_ helpful explanation ever,” Stiles says, exasperated.

 

Derek glares at him. “It’s something you have to experience; it’s not easy to put into words.”

 

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says, throwing up his hands. “Any other stellar advice?”

 

“Keep out of sight,” Derek replies. “And don’t let anyone find out. There are hunters around here, and if they find out what you are, they’ll kill you.”

 

“Great,” Stiles mutters. “Okay, look, I’ve got homework, and I’m hungry. What do I do Friday night?”

 

Derek hesitates. “Is your dad still the sheriff?”

 

Stiles nods. “He’s working that night.”

 

“I’ll come by,” Derek replies. “Make sure things don’t get out of control.”

 

Stiles turns to go, and Derek adds, “Be careful tonight. The nights leading up to your first full moon can be tough.”

 

“Now you tell me,” Stiles mutters, and heads back to his Jeep.

 

He pauses just outside the door, smelling something odd, and he files it away. Just about everything smells weird now, mostly because it feels like every scent is brand new.

 

Right now, he just has to get through Friday.

 

~~~~~

 

Stiles skips lacrosse practice the next day, too, although this time it’s because his dad has to take him in for the second rabies shot.

 

The irony is that missing lacrosse practice today means Stiles loses any chance he may have had to try out for first line, when his newfound abilities make it likely that he could actually make the cut.

 

Assuming, of course, that he didn’t fall on his face again.

 

“How are you feeling?” his dad asks as they enter the doctor’s office.

 

Stiles shrugs. “I’m fine.”

 

“Is the bite healing?”

 

Stiles thinks of the unmarked skin. “Faster than I expected.”

 

His dad nods. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.

 

Stiles hesitates and asks, “Do you know anything about Derek Hale?”

 

“Shame about what happened to his family,” his dad replies. “Last I’d heard, him and his sister had left the state.”

 

Stiles knows he has no reason to know that Derek Hale is back in town, and he opts to keep his mouth shut. Prying further will just alert his dad to the fact that he hasn’t exactly kept his nose out of police business.

 

The doctor gives him the shot, and then says cheerfully, “Let’s see how that bite is healing.”

 

Stiles would really rather not, but there’s no way he can protest and not give it away. With a sigh, he lifts his shirt, grateful that his dad hadn’t come in with him. Dr. Parker hadn’t seen the bite the other night, so he has no way of knowing how quickly Stiles had healed.

 

“Where was the bite?” Parker asks.

 

Stiles puts a hand over the spot where the bite had been. “It healed pretty quickly.”

 

“The hospital report said the skin had been broken,” Parker says. “There’s not even any bruising.”

 

Stiles keeps his mouth shut, because there’s nothing he can say to explain why the bite is already healed unless he wants to try to explain that he’s a werewolf now.

 

Parker shakes his head. “Well, no one gets rabies shots for fun that’s for sure. Have your dad take you to the hospital if you have a bad reaction.”

 

 “What did the doctor say?” his dad asks when Stiles emerges from the exam room.

 

“Looking good, and you’re supposed to take me to the ER if I have a bad reaction,” Stiles replies.

 

His dad nods. “All right. You want to go out for dinner?”

 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, sure.”

 

His hip’s a little sore from the shot, but he’s done his research on rabies vaccines. As long as he doesn’t have a nasty reaction—which is unlikely at this point—he’ll be fine.

 

Also, considering that he caught _lycanthropy_ , he doubts he’ll have to worry about rabies any time soon.

 

Unless being a werewolf makes him _more_ likely to get rabies. He’ll have to do some research to check.

 

They eat at the diner, and Stiles doesn’t even protest when his dad gets curly fries. He’s still feeling a little guilty about the whole “getting turned into a werewolf” thing.

 

“Okay, what’s up, kid?” his dad asks halfway through his turkey burger, which is probably his idea of a bargain for the curly fries.

 

“Hmm?” Stiles asks, distracted by the conversation he hears a few tables over, where a couple of women are debating preferred technique when it comes to a guy going down; Stiles is finding it a very educational conversation.

 

His dad looks unimpressed. “You feeling okay?”

 

“Fine,” Stiles says immediately. “I mean, a little sore from the shot, but I’m good.”

 

“You’re distracted,” his dad corrects him. “Which isn’t terribly unusual, I’ll grant you, but it seems different. _You_ seem different.”

 

Stiles stiffens. “Do I? Really? How?”

 

His dad shakes his head. “I’m not sure. You’d tell me if you’re not okay, though, right?”

 

Stiles wonders if becoming a werewolf counts as “not okay” in his dad’s book, and decides that since he’s whole and relatively unharmed, he can say that he’s fine. “I would definitely tell you if I wasn’t okay.”

 

His dad doesn’t appear entirely convinced. “You’ll tell me if that changes?”

 

“Indubitably,” Stiles agrees.

 

His dad gives him a long look, the one that says he knows Stiles is lying, but doesn’t know exactly _what_ Stiles is lying about, or how to ferret out the truth. “I’m going to hold you to that,” he says.

 

It’s both a threat and a promise, and Stiles nods, because as much as his dad works, he doesn’t think he can hide this from him forever, no matter how much he might want to do so.

 

Eventually, he’ll have to come clean, or his dad will find out, and then Stiles will deal with the fallout. But not now, not when he’s still trying to get things under control, or to figure out _if_ he can get things under control. Not when his dad is clearly still a little freaked out about the fact that Stiles might have rabies.

 

On second thought, maybe he _should_ tell his dad. He might not worry so much if he knew—or maybe he’d worry more. That uncertainty is what keeps Stiles silent.

 

Stiles bobs his head, because he can’t think of anything else to do, other than to agree, and then they finish off their dinner.

 

They head home, and Stiles lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, sleep apparently a long way off. He can hear his dad downstairs—the steady beat of his heart, the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass, the rustling of paper.

 

Even though he probably shouldn’t be hearing any of that, Stiles finds it familiar all the same, and that’s the sound that lulls him to sleep.

 

~~~~~

 

The full moon is the next night, and Stiles feels his control slipping. Focusing on his teachers’ lectures is more difficult than usual, even with his Adderall, because he can hear _everything_ —every whisper, every rustle, every tick of the clock, and every sigh.

 

Stiles wonders if he’ll ever get it under control, if he’ll learn to ignore that sort of thing, if it will become white noise. If he doesn’t, he can foresee a lot of problems in his future.

 

“Hey, you coming to practice today?” Scott asks, leaning against the locker next to Stiles’.

 

Stiles nods. “Planning on it, yeah.”

 

“Is there something wrong?” Scott asks in a low voice.

 

Stiles hesitates. “Yeah, actually. I need to talk to you, and I need you not to freak out.”

 

Scott frowns. “You’re not dying, are you? Is it the rabies shots? Do you have rabies?”

 

Stiles looks around and finds an empty classroom, pulling Scott inside. “Seriously, dude, I need you to not freak out.”

 

“I’m freaking out _now_ ,” Scott protests. “Stiles!”

 

Stiles takes a deep breath. “So, um, I think I’m a werewolf.”

 

Scott punches him in the shoulder. “You fucking scared me. Don’t be such a dick, man.”

 

“I’m not kidding,” Stiles says flatly.

 

Scott rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Stiles, knock it off. I’m not in the mood for your stupid joke.”

 

The anger rushes through Stiles, hot and potent, choking him, causing his vision to go red. “I’m not joking!” he shouts, and his voice is lower and more guttural than he’s used to hearing.

 

Scott stares at him and stumbles back a couple of steps. “Oh, shit,” he breathes.

 

Stiles turns away, clapping a hand over his open mouth, closing his eyes and trying to remember the breathing exercises he learned back when he got panic attacks on a regular basis. “Sorry,” he mutters, when he thinks he might have himself under control.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” Scott replies and takes a step closer, putting a cautious hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “What can I do?”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing. The full moon is tomorrow. I’m going to lock myself in my basement.”

 

Scott looks physically pained. “Do you need me to stay with you? I can tell Allison that I’m sick or something, or maybe I’ll get hurt during lacrosse.”

 

Stiles is incredibly touched. “No, Scott. I’ve got chains, I’ve got padlocks, and I’ll be fine.”

 

“I’d stay with you,” Scott offers.

 

Stiles has himself fully under control now, and he claps Scott on the shoulder. “That’s why you’re my best friend, but one of us has to have a normal high school experience, right? Go on a date with Allison, have fun at the party, and think of me fondly.”

 

“Are you sure?” Scott asks, because he really is the best friend a guy could hope for.

 

Stiles doesn’t tell him that Derek might stop by, or that he has someone else to watch his back. He’s not sure there _is_ , but Stiles doesn’t really want to risk Scott, or Scott getting turned into a werewolf.

 

Scott would probably make a better werewolf than Stiles, and maybe he would enjoy it more, especially with the improvement to his lacrosse game, but right now, this is Stiles’ cross to bear.

 

He can’t help but feel like he has to bear it alone if he’s going to protect the people he loves.

 

“What can I do?” Scott asks.

 

Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing right now, not unless I lose control again. Then I’ll need you to cover for me.”

 

“Done,” Scott says readily. “Think you could fake a panic attack?”

 

It’s a lie that has the benefit of being based in the truth. “I can do that.”

 

Scott nods. “Good thing for you you’re going to be warming the bench. But if we don’t get going, Finstock is going to be pissed.”

 

Stiles isn’t sure he cares; he likes lacrosse well enough, and he has school spirit, but if he got cut from the team entirely it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

 

But lacrosse is important to Scott, and therefore it’s important to Stiles, so he should probably try not to get cut.

 

Although given his reaction to Scott’s disbelief, maybe it’s a good thing he’s going to be riding the bench. Stiles hadn’t needed Derek Hale to tell him that it’s a bad idea for people to find out about what he is now, and if he loses it in front of the entire team, it wouldn’t be pretty.

 

Finstock ignores Stiles, which is about par for the course; Stiles figures that between his absences and falling on his face, he can kiss his chance of playing goodbye. The coach puts Scott in during the scrimmage, but he lets Stiles warm the bench. Stiles might have protested, but it seems counterproductive at this point.

 

Jackson runs right over Scott a couple of times, but otherwise, Scott does okay for himself. He’s not going to make first line anytime soon, but at least he doesn’t look like a total idiot out there.

 

Once practice is over, Stiles doesn’t even bother showering. He hasn’t broken a sweat, so it seems fairly pointless. He gives Scott a ride home, and Scott asks, “You going to be okay?”

 

Stiles nods. “I’m just going to catch up on some homework.”

 

“The year just started,” Scott protests. “We barely have any.”

 

Stiles shrugs. “No time like the present.”

 

Scott shakes his head, probably used to Stiles’ weirdness by now. “Call if you need me.”

 

Stiles manages to get some homework done by turning his music up loud enough to drown out extraneous noise, loud enough that it becomes white noise by default. He’s not sure how long his focus is going to last, so he presses right through.

 

Maybe he falls asleep at his desk, maybe he sleepwalks, but he regains consciousness in the woods, lying on a bed of leaves. He’s wearing his jeans and hoodie, since he hadn’t taken them off the night before, but he’s in socks, and he feels chilled.

 

He can’t help but feel he’s been out here for a while, and that this is weird.

 

This _has_ to be weird.

 

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to think, but he feels an overwhelming panic. The full moon is tonight, and there’s no indication that he’ll be able to keep it together. His breath comes in short gasps, and he has no fucking clue what he’s supposed to do, or where he is, or how he’s supposed to get home.

 

He picks himself up and brushes off the leaves and dirt, and then he does the only thing he can do, and picks a direction and starts walking, wishing he’d fallen asleep with his phone in his pocket, rather than on the desk.

 

Stiles is grateful to run up against a fence, and follows the fence to a street, and from there he can tell that he’s only a few blocks from home.

 

It’s early enough that no one’s out and about right now, other than the guy who lives on the corner, who emerges from his house in his bathrobe to pick up the paper.

 

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to appear nonchalant, like he hasn’t been sleepwalking, or whatever he had been doing.

 

Oh, God, Stiles thinks. He hopes he hadn’t _hurt_ anybody.

 

Mr. Bendis looks up as Stiles passes, surprise crossing his face. “Stiles? What are you doing up this early?”

 

“Apparently sleepwalking,” Stiles says, trying to sound like it’s no big deal. “It happens occasionally.”

 

Mr. Bendis looks concerned. “You might want to talk to your dad about that. It could be dangerous.”

 

“You’re absolutely right,” Stiles agrees. “In fact, I’m going to do that right now.”

 

He hurries home, grateful when he doesn’t see anybody else, but then he realizes that he doesn’t have his keys, and the doors are locked.

 

Stiles stares at the locked door and considers his options. He doesn’t think he would have locked the door behind him, which has to mean…

 

He backs up and goes around the corner, spotting his open bedroom window, the curtains fluttering in the faint breeze. “Right,” Stiles mutters, and decides to try out his new skills.

 

Stiles rubs his hands together and bends his knees experimentally, expecting to make it maybe six inches off the ground. Instead, he goes straight up, catching the gutter easily, and hoisting himself up. He falls into the room and wonders if other werewolves have more grace.

 

He bets Derek is _way_ more graceful, the bastard.

 

Stiles has to hurry to get cleaned up and get to school, yawning all the way, and trying not to think about the fact that the full moon is that night.

 

Scott pulls him aside around lunchtime. “Are you coming to the party tonight?”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “No, dude. It’s the full moon, remember?”

 

Scott frowns. “But you could come for a little while, right?”

 

Stiles loves the guy for sure, loves him like a brother, but Scott doesn’t always think things through. “I probably could, but if I freak out at the party, then I’m going to be known as the loser who can’t handle himself at parties, and not just a loser. I’ll pass.”

 

Scott looks at him with his puppy dog eyes. “An hour?”

 

“No, man, I can’t,” Stiles replies, and part of it is the feeling of responsibility, and not wanting to hurt someone else, but the more selfish part of him just doesn’t want to see Scott at the party of the year with his gorgeous new girlfriend.

 

Scott might not have made front line, but he’s got his foot in the door to the popular group by dating Allison, and Stiles is still just a weirdo.

 

Scott nods. “You sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”

 

“No sense in both of us having a miserable time,” Stiles replies. “I have a trip to the hardware store planned. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Let me know if that changes,” Scott replies, and Stiles knows he means it.

 

Stiles nods. “I will. I swear.”

 

“Next time,” Scott promises.

 

Stiles agrees, but he’s not about to put Scott in danger; he’s going to have to learn control before he’ll feel okay about letting Scott anywhere near him on a full moon.

 

He goes to the hardware store and realizes that padlocks and chains are probably kind of suspicious looking, but he honestly can’t think of anything else he might buy that wouldn’t just make it look worse.

 

Thankfully, the cashier is probably a recent high school grad, appears bored to tears, and doesn’t seem to care _what_ Stiles is buying.

 

Stiles suspects that he could probably buy all the makings for a bomb, and this guy wouldn’t notice.

 

He hauls it into the house and grabs a sandwich, since he has no idea when he’ll get a chance to eat otherwise.

 

The basement is his only option, and Stiles is grateful to have it. A lot of houses in Beacon Hills don’t have them, but whoever had built the house originally had apparently wanted one. Of course, he’s going to have to figure out how to secure himself, and he hadn’t really thought about how difficult that might be.

 

Stiles startles when he hears the doorbell, and he realizes that the sun is rapidly descending. He doesn’t think he has much time left, so he’ll have to get rid of his visitor quickly.

 

But when Stiles opens the door, Derek is standing there, hands shoved in his pockets. “I figured I’d better make sure you were okay.”

 

“I’m trying to figure out how to secure myself,” Stiles admits. “And oh my God, the fact that I’m asking you for advice on how to chain myself up makes me _so uncomfortable_ ,” he adds in a rush.

 

Derek actually cracks a smile, which Stiles honestly wasn’t sure was possible. “There’s a trick to it.”

 

“I have a basement,” Stiles offers.

 

Derek nods. “That will work.”

 

Stiles glances out the window. “How much time do you think I have?”

 

“Have you lost control at all?”

 

Stiles shrugs and leads Derek inside, locking the door behind him. “Well, Scott didn’t believe me when I tried to tell him, and I kind of lost it on him.”

 

Derek glares. “I told you not to tell anybody.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me, dude? I get not letting everybody know, but Scott’s like a brother to me. He was going to find out, okay? It’s not like I told the whole school.”

 

Derek’s glare intensifies. “If you tell one person, you tell ten, and they tell ten, and—”

 

“And it’s _Scott_!” Stiles snaps. “Besides, he barely believes me. He’s not going to tell anybody. He knows better.” He takes a breath. “Forget it. It’s done. Let’s just get through the night, huh?”

 

Derek nods. “Anything other than the thing with Scott?”

 

“I did the whole sleepwalking thing last night,” Stiles admits. “I woke up the woods with no memory of how I got there.”

 

“That will get better as you get control,” Derek promises, following Stiles down to the basement. “Not many anchor points down here.”

 

“If I’d thought about it, I would have bought some anchor bolts,” Stiles jokes. “I, um, didn’t think I’d have time. I guess we can do it next month.”

 

Derek shakes his head. “If you work at it, you’ll have enough control next month not to need the chains. It just depends on if you can find an anchor, and if you try.”

 

“Here is me with the trying,” Stiles replies. “Starting just as soon as I manage not to kill anybody tonight.”

 

Derek’s expression softens just slightly. “I won’t let you.”

 

“Well, okay then,” Stiles replies.

 

Letting Derek chain him up feels weirdly intimate. Stiles has to think unsexy thoughts to keep from responding to Derek’s proximity—picturing his history teacher naked helps.

 

Derek smirks at him.

 

“Fuck off,” Stiles mutters.

 

Derek had chained him to one of the support beams, and when Stiles tests the restraints, he can’t move. Derek had definitely done a better job of it than Stiles would have been able to manage on his own.

 

“Thanks,” Stiles says quietly as Derek steps back. “I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

 

Derek sits down across from Stiles and puts his back against the wall. “I’ll make sure of it.”

 

Stiles leans his head back against the beam. “Okay, so tell me about keeping control. What do I need to know?”

 

Derek hesitates. “It’s a little hard to say. I was born this way, and you weren’t.”

 

“I’ll extrapolate.” Stiles can feel the pull of the full moon; his skin feels too tight, and his breath is coming faster. “Distract me, okay?”

 

“It’s important to have an anchor,” Derek begins. “Sometimes it’s a person, sometimes it’s an emotion. It’s what you hang onto during the shift to maintain control. When you shift, you’ll be stronger and faster. You can draw on that, but you have to control it.”

 

Stiles beats his head against the beam. “I can feel it.”

 

“It’s okay,” Derek says. “It’s your first full moon. It’ll get easier.”

 

Stiles takes a couple of deep breaths. “Keep talking. It’s easier if I have something to focus on. Tell me what I have to watch out for.” When Derek is quiet, Stiles says, “Tell me about wolfsbane.”

 

Derek begins talking about wolfsbane and all its uses, what to watch out for, what it’s used for, and the words begin to bleed together as darkness descends. The basement is always dim, but once the sun has fully set and the moon rises, there’s very little light, although Stiles can see clearly.

 

His vision is tinged by red, though, and Stiles fights against the chains. He wants out; he wants to run. He wants to rip and tear and howl. He wants to find his alpha.

 

“Stiles, listen to me,” Derek says. “You have to fight it. Find an anchor.”

 

Stiles snarls at him, howling his anger.

 

“What the hell is going on here?”

 

It’s not the words that pierce Stiles’ haze as much as the familiar scent of burnt coffee and sweat and Old Spice, and a heartbeat that’s both familiar and not at the same time. The red haze begins to fade.

 

“Get away from him!”

 

And now Stiles smells gun oil and cordite, and his vision clears completely. He has enough control to say, “Dad, it’s okay. Don’t shoot him.”

 

“Fuck,” his dad says, and Stiles realizes that his voice had been distorted, and he realizes that he’s still shifted.

 

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and he breathes in those familiar scents and hears his dad’s heartbeat—still reassuringly steady, even after everything—and Stiles feels like he’s in control again. “Dad, it’s okay.”

 

“I’m going to unchain him,” Derek says quietly, and when Stiles opens his eyes, he’s still pressed against the wall with his hands raised. “Is that okay?”

 

His dad is standing to the side, his eyes on Stiles, the gun pointing at the floor now.

 

“Dad,” Stiles says insistently. “Derek was helping me. I know I have a lot to tell you, but Derek isn’t the bad guy here.”

 

His dad nods. “All right. Remove the restraints.” He puts his gun away but doesn’t secure it.

 

Derek meets Stiles’ eyes, looking for confirmation of Stiles’ control, and Stiles nods. He feels good now, clear-headed and focused, steady, just like his dad’s heartbeat.

 

And damn, if his dad isn’t an awesome cop, Stiles thinks.

 

“I think we’d better go upstairs,” his dad says, and while the gun is in the holster, Stiles still feels the tension.

 

Stiles walks up first, leaving Derek in the middle, all the more convenient for a shot in the back if his dad decides he’s a threat.

 

“I’m going to get a drink,” his dad announces once Stiles and Derek sit at the dining room table. “Derek?”

 

Derek shakes his head. “Alcohol doesn’t affect werewolves.”

 

“Small consolation,” his dad mutters.

 

Stiles is pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to hear his dad if he hadn’t been a werewolf. “Not for me,” he says, and Derek smirks, because he hears Stiles but his dad doesn’t.

 

“All right,” his dad says, sitting across from Derek and Stiles with a bottle and a glass. “I want to know everything.”

 

Stiles starts. “I didn’t lie to you. I really did get bitten in the woods.”

 

His dad takes a drink. “That’s when it happened.”

 

“Things have been weird since then,” Stiles admits. “I’ve been smelling things I shouldn’t be smelling, seeing things, and I knew something was wrong. I went looking for what bit me, and I found Derek, and he knew what was going on.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek says softly. “You can tell him.”

 

Stiles glances at him. “ _You_ tell him.”

 

“The Hales have always been wolves,” Derek says. “Most of us, anyway.”

 

His dad sighs and rubs his eyes, and then he says, “No offense, but I knew there was something different about your family.”

 

“None taken,” Derek says easily.

 

Stiles is a little surprised at how well his dad is taking all of this. “Are you—are you okay with this?”

 

“That might be a stretch,” his dad replies, taking a drink. “Let’s just say I’ve seen a few things that didn’t add up, and knowing there are werewolves answers a few questions I had.”

 

Stiles gives a sigh of relief, and notes that Derek also appears to be slightly less tense.

 

“So, am I going to have to worry about other werewolves popping up?” his dad asks after a moment.

 

Derek shakes his head. “Only alphas can turn people, and I honestly don’t know who the alpha is right now.”

 

“What the hell is an alpha?” his dad asks. “No, never mind, that can wait.” He slams back the rest of his drink and pours another, looking at both of them. “Keep going.”

 

“That’s it,” Stiles protests. “This was my first full moon, Dad. I don’t have anything else.”

 

Even with one shot in his system, his dad’s gaze is sharp. “All right, but I need all the cards on the table, boys. _Everything_. I can’t protect you if I don’t know.”

 

Stiles glances at Derek and thinks of the odd smell he’d run up against leaving Derek’s house the other day, but he doesn’t say anything. Derek had helped him, and he feels a certain loyalty.

 

“Both of you, look at me,” his dad says, and Stiles does so. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Derek staring at his dad, too. “Please tell me.”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “Dad, I swear, I don’t know anything more. This is all new.”

 

Derek clears his throat. “I know whose body you found.”

 

Stiles turns to stare at him, and now Derek is staring at his hands, clasped tightly together on the table. “What?”

 

“It’s Laura,” Derek says quietly.

 

His dad takes another drink, apparently recognizing the name sooner than Stiles does; it takes him a moment to remember that Laura had been Derek’s older sister. “Tell me.”

 

“Laura came back here, but she wouldn’t tell me why. She just said there was something she had to do,” Derek admits in a low voice. “When I didn’t hear from her, I followed.”

 

Derek stops, and Stiles is pretty sure that’s all Derek means to say.

 

His dad clearly has other ideas. “Go on.”

 

Derek shifts uneasily. “I found—she was in wolf form. I buried her like that.”

 

Stiles does some quick mental math. “You didn’t say we could become wolves!”

 

“We can’t!” Derek snaps. “Alphas can, but they’re the only ones, and not all of them can fully shift, okay?”

 

“Stop,” his dad says, voice cracking out authoritatively. “You’re telling me that you found half of your sister’s corpse, and you—what?”

 

Derek looks off to the side, and Stiles can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “I buried her with the ceremony that my family has always buried their dead. It was the least I could do.”

 

Stiles feels a pang, remembering his dad’s lecture on treating a dead body like a person, especially now that he has a name to put on it.

 

“You should have called me,” his dad says quietly. “I would have helped.”

 

Derek swallows audibly. “It had to be me.” He sighs. “As long as no one removes the wolfsbane spiral, the body will appear to be a wolf’s.”

 

His dad takes another sip of his whiskey. “Okay. I’m afraid I’m going to need your alibi, Derek. If there’s anything you can provide to clear you, it would be appreciated.”

 

“She was dead when I got to Beacon Hills,” Derek says dully. “I used a credit card on the drive out.”

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” his dad says gently, and Derek’s mouth tightens.

 

And, oh fuck, Stiles is going to feel sorry for him, as well as indebted to him.

 

Derek stands abruptly. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks Stiles stiffly.

 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, I’m—I’m good.”

 

His dad is his anchor, Stiles realizes. His heartbeat and Old Spice and burnt station coffee and gun oil and cordite and everything.

 

Stiles’ dad is all he has left, and he cannot even imagine how Derek is feeling right now; Derek doesn’t even have that much.

 

Derek is nearly out the door, and Stiles stands, nearly knocking over his chair, racing to intercept him. “Hey, wait. Look, I—thanks.”

 

Derek shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Okay, but—I’m—” Stiles doesn’t know how to say that he’s sorry Derek’s sister is dead, or that entire Hale family is dead. He doesn’t know how to tell him that Derek’s help meant a lot, or that he was grateful for it. “Give me your phone.”

 

Derek frowns, but he reaches in his pocket and hands Stiles his phone. “What are you doing?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so suspicious,” he says as he programs in his number. “There. Call me if you need me,” he orders as he hands the phone over.

 

“I won’t,” Derek replies, but there’s the hint of a smile, and then he disappears.

 

Stiles rejoins his dad at the table. “Do you think he killed his sister?”

 

“No, I don’t,” his dad says shortly. “I was there on the night of the fire. I saw them together, and they were—” He stares down at the table, tracing the grain with his fingertips. “It was clear they were close. I’ll check his alibi, but my gut tells me he’ll check out.”

 

“I don’t know who did this,” Stiles admits quietly. “It wasn’t Derek, though.”

 

His dad scrubs his hands over his face, looking so very tired. “Okay. I believe you. But I’m still checking it out, although it can wait until tomorrow.”

 

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Stiles says quietly. “I know—I know this is really f—screwed up, and it’s my fault, but—”

 

His dad rounds the table and pulls Stiles into a rough hug. “Bad things happen,” he murmurs. “Bad things happen, and we don’t have any control over them. You should go to bed.”

 

Stiles keeps hanging onto him. “I’d rather not just yet. I, um, did the sleep walking thing last night.”

 

“Sounds like a good night to sack out on the couch,” his dad replies lightly. “I’ll make popcorn. You get into your pajamas. Good thing tomorrow is Saturday.”

 

Stiles knows that doesn’t mean much to his dad, who will go into the station anyway, because he doesn’t seem to know what weekends are.

 

For tonight, though, he has things under control. Tomorrow, his dad will start investigating the murder again, and Stiles will continue researching werewolves, and things will be fine. Stiles will make it so.

 

He feels his phone vibrate and sees the text message from Scott. _Party was awsm wish u wr hr._

 

And then, the second text message, _allison kissed me!_

 

Stiles quickly texts back. _Awesome, dude._

 

_U OK_

_M good_ ,” Stiles replies, and thumbs his phone off, trying to ignore the jealousy he feels.

 

He takes a deep breath and says out loud, “I’m good.”

 

Funny thing is, he believes it.


End file.
